


jingle bells, christmas hell

by orphan_account



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Bara!Sans, Cunnilingus, Ectodicks, F/M, Female Reader, Grinding, Oral, Reader-Insert, others may appear, self-indulgent skellyfucker trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-06 02:10:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5398934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re not particularly sure how you got talked into this. So what, you needed community service for one of your credits. And that’s how you find yourself attempting to herd children towards a man in a fake white beard and fat suit. </p><p>And, of course, trying to keep the tiny elf dress you’re wearing from riding up into no-man’s land.</p><p>or: cj is a dirty skellyfucker trash</p><p>CH 2 now edited!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> i have no excuse for this ngl

Some things are humiliating. Others are _jingly_. Those two things together, however… Well, that’s just asking for a bad time.

You’re not particularly sure how you got talked into this. So what, you needed community service for one of your credits. And of course when Frisk told you _hey, I have an idea_ , with that stupid mischievous little grin on their face, you went along because come on, how bad could it be? And that’s how you find yourself attempting to herd children towards a man in a fake white beard and fat suit. And, of course, trying to keep the tiny elf dress you’re wearing from riding up into no-man’s land.

It’s worse than it sounds. Really.

Where the hell did they get these things, anyway? A fucking strip club? You know for a solid fact that these these are not child appropriate in any way whatsoever. Across the room at a small table you can see Frisk - _that fucking pipsqueak, goddammit_ \- stifling laughter and you shoot them a mutinous glare. Then one of the toddlers screams with joy for whatever reason and you wince, and you’re back to shepherding children.

Your boots - tiny little slippers with pom-poms on the hooked tips - jingle obnoxiously with every step. You try not to cringe as you walk. Frisk won’t hold this over you for too long, though, and you’re thankful for that. At least none of the others are here to bear witness to your humiliation and once this is over you’ll never speak of it again. Right?

“ _w_ _hoa_. kid. lookin’ good.”

Wrong. Wrong wrong _wrong_ , so fucking _wrong_ -

You plaster on a wide smile - the same one that you’ve been using all night that seems to fool most people - and turn to face Papyrus and Sans.

Papyrus looks like a damn kid in a candy shop (which you guess isn’t too different from the truth, in retrospect) as he gazes around at the fluffy fake snow and glittering fairy lights. Sans, on the other hand, has all his attention fixated on you; you feel heat rise in your face under his gaze and over his shoulder Frisk looks actually… surprised to see them. You’re not sure what to think of that.

“Come to see Santa?” you chirp cheerfully, proud of the way you don’t stutter like a complete idiot. You notice Sans’s grin turns rather odd as you shift your weight from one leg to the other, the dress jingling obnoxiously and riding up your thigh even further. Trying not to laugh, you presume.

“OF COURSE WE HAVE!” Papyrus exalts, clapping his hands delightedly and thank _god_ he decided to take of his armour because the human kids are already starting to give you three odd looks.

Though - _obviously_ \- you don’t care, save for on the behalf of Sans and Papyrus themselves. They can wonder what a human such as yourself is doing with two members of King Asgore of the Monsters’ inner circle all day if they want; neither you nor Frisk give a shit.

Their looks don’t escape Sans’s attention, though they go straight over poor Pap’s head. “he wanted to come see the big guy,” Sans says finally. “didn’t expect to see you here though.”

“Yeah, well-” you pause, ushering a squall of kids forwards towards Santa - “Frisk said they an idea since I needed community service for one of my classes. I made the mistake of listening.” You shrug, forcing a small laugh. Frisk signs a sheepish “ _sorry_ ” at you over Sans’s shoulder. You sigh, a mix of affection and exasperation.

“yeah, well,” Sans parrots you, eliciting a fond eye roll from both you and Papyrus, “ya look good.”

“Thanks,” you said dryly, even as your face goes rather red and you yet again attempt to pull down the hem of your dress. He laughs.

“aw, come on. i’m just trying to boost your elf-esteem.”

His words take a moment to sink in. Then you let out a loud, rather unattractive snort at the same time that Papyrus groans and smacks Sans’s shoulder. One of the kids behind the velvet rope next to you even giggles, before shrinking back as Sans looks at him in amusement.

You shake your head, and direct Papyrus into the line, which is beginning to thin - _finally_ \- as the night starts to come to a close. “Just follow them and wait your turn. Simple.” You give Papyrus’s shoulder a gentle pat as he claps his hands excitedly, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“Oh, goodie,” he gushes. “I’ve never met Santa in person before!" You don’t have the heart to tell him the truth.

And that’s that; he strikes up a conversation about Mettaton himself with the child next to him in line almost as soon as you move away to stand next to Sans again. His expression one of a proud parent (though, again, that’s not too far off the mark) as he watches Pap chat animatedly with the younger human.

You feel a tug at the back of your dress, suddenly, and when you turn, Frisk is there signing “ _up!_ ”

“You’re nine,” you remind them, and they frown, repeating the sign vehemently. You sigh and pick them up the same way you would a baby, and prop them on your hip. Then you realize just why they were so adamant about being picked up as your dress bunches where they sit, riding higher than it has all night as you support Frisk on your hip. _That wicked little_ -

You shoot them a sharp look, signing a one-handed _no!_ while Sans is still focused on Papyrus. Frisk grins, shrugging in an “ _oops!_ ” gesture.

 _He’s not interested_ , you mouth and they roll their eyes. You're not exactly sure what that means, but you don't get a chance to ask, as Sans turns back to the pair of you.

Frisk waves happily as if they haven't seen him in weeks and he chuckles, cuffing their chin lightly and greeting them with a “hey, squirt”. They sign something at him too quickly for you to follow. Whatever it is, though, it makes a faint blue-ish flush rise on the zygomatic arches of his cheeks. You raise an eyebrow at him, but he waves it off. “anyway.” He clears his throat, scratching at the back of his skull. “when do you get off here, kid?”

You look around. The crowd of parents and children has thinned, and the clock reads close to 9:00.

"'Soon as the line is done,” you finally digress with a small shrug. “It’s different every day.” Sans hums, shifting his weight from one foot to the other in a way that seems almost anxious. Suddenly Frisk squirms, trying to get down and surprising both of you. You give them an odd look, but set them down once more, and they scamper off to join Papyrus at the end of the line.

It only takes a few seconds for the ensuing silence between you and Sans to get _awkward_.

You're not used to that. You and Sans have always been close, ever since you met. The two of you had clicked easily, and the resulting friendship had just seemed… effortless.

This is different, though. There's a tension in the air like he’s gearing up to do something big. It's something you've only ever seen once, when Frisk showed up at the house with none other than fucking Flowey in a little terracotta pot, and Sans had nearly slammed the thing into the nearest wall before Frisk stopped him.

“so,” he finally says, after a few minutes of watching Frisk and Papyrus. "whaddya say we get out of here after this? pap can take the kid home, he's been itchin' to spend time with 'em lately." There's distinct movement in the pockets of his hoodie, like he's clenching his hands nervously. You eye him in your peripherals, wondering what he's up to, but decide to humor him. 

"What did you have in mind?" Your voice is much more casual than you'd expected and you're rather proud of it. Sans clears his throat. 

"uh. well. y'know, grillby's II just opened up, 's only a block away-"

Teasingly, you say "Ooh, sounds romantic." Because you have to be honest; for all its greatness, if there's one thing Grillby's _isn't,_ it's 'romantic'. But to your surprise Sans goes blue, avoiding your gaze when you look at him. "... Sans?"

"c'mon, don't rattle m-my bones here," he says, honest-to-god _stuttering._ You've never actually seen him so flustered. "it's bound tibia good time." 

The pun goes straight over your head as you stare at him. He's still avoiding looking at you. "Sans," you begin, slowly. "Are you asking me out?" 

He goes the color of blue-raspberry flavoring. You can tell he's trying to come up with something witty to say, but what ends up coming out is a moody "... maybe."

There's only one way to say it: you're stunned. In your mind, when you (rather shamefully, in retrospect) imagined this situation, Sans is always composed and roguishly charming, put together with that permanent grin of his. But here he is, blushing and stuttering and - frankly - fucking _adorably_ awkward. You decide to take the lead because, despite trying to hide it, he actually looks scared. (Of what, you're not sure. Rejection? Humiliation? You can't be positive.)

"Hey." You nudge him slightly and offer a tiny reassuring smile when he looks at you. "Sounds fantastic."

You can both see and feel the tension flood out of him, and his chest rattles like he's letting out a long breath. Then the Sans you know is back, a wide grin in place as he bumps his hip into yours. "awesome," he says. "9 then?"

You smile, albeit a bit shyly, and bump him back. "9."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come see me at poe-dxmeron.tumblr.com!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this took way longer than it should have to write and post? i'm super duper sorry folks i literally have no excuse beyond writer's block and pure laziness
> 
> check out the playlist i usually listen to while writing this: http://8tracks.com/blazingstararcher/sans

Grillby's II is bustling when you enter; if there's one thing neither humans nor monsters can deny, it's a good atmosphere. You've since changed out of that god-awful outfit, so when Grillby himself sees you he waves in greeting as opposed to dying of laughter. Y'know, can't have that.

Sans had looked rather unsure on the chilly walk over, until you'd mustered up the courage to wrap your hand firmly around his. ( _What could it hurt?_  you'd thought.) Then he'd looked at you like - like... You couldn't find words to describe it at the time. He looked at you like you were the stars themselves, like you were something ethereal to be revered with the snow on your work-disheveled hair. You had frozen under his gaze, that had suddenly turned intense with an emotion you couldn't name. But then he'd smiled (or rather, his grin grew) and it was brilliant and  _so, so sweet_ and then he was pulling you through the falling snow. 

Now here you are, at the counter with Grillby sliding your usual order down to you and Sans as soft swing plays from the jukebox. Life on the surface has been good to Grillby; business is booming and his fire crackles more cheerfully, and on more than one occasion you've spotted what might be the beginnings of a fiery smile. 

"Let me guess," he calls down the bar, one of the lenses of his glasses flashing in his version of a wink, "put it on your tab?"

Sans lets out a laugh, raising -  _what is that, a can of whipped cream? Oh well, at least he's getting into the holiday spirit -_ and sending Grillby a saucy wink. "you know it, pal," he calls back.

He turns back to you, leaning in like he's about to share some confidential information with you. "you know," he says in a low voice, "there really is no-" 

You snort. "I know. There's no tab. You get free stuff here. And that's why you're the luckiest bastard in this bar." You mirror his wink, grinning at him and sipping your drink. 

It takes you a moment to realize he's just smiling at you now, that odd, intense emotion from earlier back in his gaze, his wide permanent grin soft in a way you've only seen once or twice. You raise an eyebrow in question at him. "i am, aren't i?" he says, and his voice is softer than normal, almost reminiscent. Or something along those lines. 

Suddenly-  _strangely-_ you're struck with the urge to kiss him. To take his hand, sitting so close, within reach, and pull him towards you, to kiss him on that goofy smile he's always wearing. You flush red, offering a rather shy little smile and bumping your knee against his. "'You are' what?" you ask. 

But then, of course, because hope and doubt so often go hand in hand and the latter always strikes at the most inopportune times, you begin to _wonder._ Inevitable what-ifs start filling the empty space in your mind and you have to focus on the music in the background to drown them out. _What if someone put him up to this? Or worse, what if it's just another one his jokes?_

_What if you're not what he's expected?_

He fucking Gaster-Blasters those thoughts away though, with his next words as he loops his arm around yours. "the luckiest guy in here. though," he lowers his voice, "it's not because of the free food." He's looking at you like you're radiant, efflorescent, like you're going to disappear at any moment and wants to memorize your features before the gentlest of breezes sweeps you away. That same urge hits you again, to draw him close and hold him there - against you - until the end of time.

He seems to notice this time, and his grin turns the slightest bit salacious. "What?" You frown, and it's a bit more... pouty than you'd wanted it to. _"What?"_

"nothing," he deflects casually, and you almost believe him until he hooks an ankle around one of the legs of the stool in you're sitting on and tugs you towards him. He seems empowered by whatever he'd sensed, no longer blushing and stumbling over every word. "hey, let me ask you something. and don't tell me a _fib_ ula."

You roll your eyes despite yourself.

"is it okay if i do this?" You feel a slinking pressure around your waist that you assume is his arm. You nod, rather shakily, and his grin grows. "how about this?" He pulls you against his side, the feet of your stool scraping against the floor. The first time he hugged you, long ago, you'd expected a complete lack of body heat, akin to something hollow and thin like- well, like a skeleton. But to your surprise he'd been remarkably warm, almost more so than you. 

Being pressed against his side like this is pleasant, the brushed cotton of his hoodie soft against your skin. You let out a soft breath and rest your cheek against the fabric at his shoulder, eliciting a small pleased sound from him. It's comfortable, familiar, sitting like this; akin to occasional movie nights and cozy, teasing embraces. The faux-fur of his hood tickles your nose with each inhale, making you huff out a little laugh. "what's so funny?" he asks, amused, and you shake your head. 

"Nothing," you reply quietly, raising your head to look at him. His eyes are on you, his smile rather soft and serene, and you can't help but return it. _Fuck it_ , you think, and lean up, pressing a kiss to the surface of his teeth. 

He goes stiff, which - to be frank - was the reaction you'd expected. Kissing a skeleton is... weird, you decide, but not entirely unpleasant. You're suddenly reminded of a movie from your childhood, the one with the map and the horse and the two men and something about kissing an old crusader skull, and the thought makes you want to giggle. The surface is smooth enamel, in contrast to the sandpapery-grittiness of the rest of his body. His whole demeanor and body language shifts a moment later, and his arm tightens around your waist. 

You pull back, teasing him just out of reach as a rather shy smile crosses your lips. Your name is soft on his breath, like - despite everything that's happened tonight - he can't quite believe that you'd done that voluntarily, unprompted. 

"Was that... okay?" you ask, and begin to worry when he doesn't reply save for a darkening of the pinpricks of light in his eye sockets. "Sans?" You begin to pull away fearing that somehow, against all odds, you'd misread the fairly obvious signals he'd been giving off. 

But then abruptly, he stands, his hand tight around yours, and he's pulling you towards-  _what the fuck, the bathroom? -_ then suddenly there's a shift in reality itself and you think,  _oh, okay_ , as he teleports. 

Sans holds you close against him as you lean up to kiss him once more, and this time he presses back, one bony hand cupping your face with astonishing gentleness. Again, he whispers your name, sweet-sounding on his voice, followed by a rattle in his chest like a deep inhale. "'okay'," he repeats with a small laugh, and it sounds hoarse. "of course it's okay. jesus, kid, do you know what you  _do_ to me?" He leans his frontal bone against your forehead, avoiding your gaze. You rest your hand over his, and he looks at you, something unnameable in his eyes. For eye sockets, they're remarkably expressive, and returns the small, soft smile you give him.

Then to your surprise, he pulls away, reaching to lace one hand in yours. You look around to where you've arrived, and surprised to find that you don't actually recognize your surroundings. It's a small, quaint house, the rug a pretty royal blue and the walls burnt orange. Not a conventional color scheme, but somehow it works. It seems familiar, somehow - the layout, the furniture, the atmosphere; Sans seems remarkably at home here as he pulls you towards the couch. It's not his and Papyrus's apartment, that's for sure, but.. 

It hits you, hard and sudden, where you are. This is his  _old_ house, you realize, in the Underground. Where he escapes to when he needs to work, or when he's having a bad day. You recognize it from pictures of he and Frisk from long ago.

You're about to ask him about it when he sits, pulling you down to straddle him. Your hands settle on his broad shoulders as he kisses you again, and your eyes slide shut despite wanting to talk about this with him. His hands- big hands, you muse, the bones larger than an average human's- settle at your hips, holding you against him. 

It occurs to you that maybe this is moving a little too fast. But to be honest, you can't bring yourself to fucking care; you've both waited for this long enough. He's holding you like he's afraid you'll disappear at any moment, or you'll change your mind and leave. 

It continues like this for a good while, the only sounds your increasingly heavy breathing and the _shff_ of skin shifting against clothes. Finally you have to break for air, your cheeks flushed and chest working overtime. Sans looks equally affected, zygomatic arches dusted pretty cyan. You just look at each other for a long moment. 

Then, in a voice that sounds strained and out-of-breath (and you feel a sort of pride that _you_ did that to him), he says, "hey kid. d'you know how many bones are in the human body?" 

This is a lead-up to something. And that something is a bad joke. You know it. But nevertheless, you answer, "206, right?' because hey, you took biology and know things. 

Sans lets out a chuckle. "well, baby, i got 207 when I'm around you. 'cause you make me pop a  _bone-_ r."

Pause. Let it sink in. And...

You snort unattractively, smacking him in the chest as you both dissolve into laughter. "Get out," you tell him through your giggles, belying your words as you lean into him for support. 

"i'm serious," he says. "is that too forward?" 

And sure enough, when you shift back to look at him, you feel a distinct hardness poking at the fabric of his basketball shorts that certainly wasn't there before. When you look him in the eye the left socket is gleaming with the tell-tale of his magic and sweat is beading along where his hairline would be. He looks rather embarrassed.

You're not sure what to do. How does one get a skeleton off? You're afraid to just dive right into it at the risk of hurting him, but you want to do _something_ for him. 

So you roll your hips down experimentally, making sure that they meet his, and brush along the length of his- 

You.... don't actually know what's down there. You're game for anything it might be, certainly, and it's a safe bet that it's probably some magical ecto-appendage, but you're not 100% sure it's actually a dick. 

( _What if it wasn't?_ Even in your own mind, you're far too intrigued by the alternatives.)

Whatever it is, he seems to like it. Like, really like it. He lets out a shuddering breath, head tipping back and eyes sliding shut. His hips arch into yours, so you repeat the motion. A smile begins to cross your lips as he moans brokenly, as if you've had him on edge for hours and are just now having mercy on him. 

His hands grasp at you as you do it again, and again, and again, setting up a rhythm that both of you can agree on, his hands guiding you to the best way to do it and your hips a hard grind against his. 

The sounds he make are addictive, climbing higher and higher as he gets closer to release. _You're_ making him feel this way, you marvel as he lets out a noise you've only ever heard in porn. 

It's then that he gets a good hold on your waist and takes the reins, urging you to move harder, faster against him as he grows nearer to the peak. You just go with it, hanging onto his shoulders. He lets out high, almost pained little whimpers every time something feels particularly good, and the sound goes straight to your core. Suddenly he arches into you, holding you in place with a low drawn-out moan as he rides out his orgasm. You feel him twitch against you in his shorts, and for some reason that sends a bolt of heat straight through you. 

He slumps, all the tension going out of him at once as he comes down from his peak. For a long minute there's no sound except his breathing. 

"shit, kid," he finally says, sounding awed and blissed-out. You flush, the reality of what you just did hitting you. "did you get to...?"

It takes a moment for you to realize what he means. "Wh- oh, no, y-you don't have to-" You stutter as one of his hands makes a beeline between your legs, but _God_ does his hand feel good as it cups the heat at your crotch, even through the fabric of your leggings. 

"'course i do," he insists, grin widening. 

And then you're the one on the couch and he's the one in front of you, except he's sliding down to kneel between your legs and his grin is distinctly lewd. "What are you-?" You cut off with a gasp you can't help as he nudges your thighs apart and pulls your leggings down in one smooth movement. "Sans!" 

"relax, babygirl," he says. The petname sends another pang of heat through you that only builds as he leans in to ghost a breath over the fabric covering your entrance. You breathe in, deep and shaky, in an attempt to ground yourself. "it's my turn to make you feel good," he continues, shifting closer and hooking your knees over his shoulders. He's shucked off his pants, you notice, to avoid chafing you assume, so of course you sneak a peek. And- lo and behold - there's nothing there. 

He doesn't waste any time, tugging your panties out of the way and diving right in. He's conjured a tongue somehow, and it runs along the length of you, making you gasp again. You're wet from earlier, and he seems to like the taste, humming and delving in shallowly. 

There's no preparation, no buildup, as his tongue snakes into you, longer than any tongue should be and more prehensile than anything you've ever had down there. You cry out, reaching for something to hold onto. Your fingers sink into the fabric of his collar (oh _god_ he's still completely dressed, that shouldn't turn you on as much as it does) the faux fur soft to the touch. 

He's good with his tongue, and it only takes a few minutes to bring you to the edge, gasping and moaning. Then his teeth brush your clit, hyper-sensitive from all the work he's done on you, and it's over. You let out something like a scream as you cum hard, shuddering as he pushes even deeper into you to let you ride out your orgasm. Your thighs tighten around him and you worry for a moment that you've hurt him once you come down, shaking in the aftershocks as he pulls out, but he just seems proud. 

"Oh my god," you say eloquently. He laughs. So do you, unhooking your legs from his shoulders and pulling him up to kiss him. You can taste yourself on his teeth. That shouldn't get you as hot as it does. 

With some shifting, you get yourselves lengthwise on the couch, twined together so neither of you fall off. You're both wiped, and it doesn't take long for you to drift off towards sleep. 

"hey," he says softly, drawing you back from sandland. You hum in reply. "be mine?" 

And the question is so simple, so casually asked, that you don't even think about it, you just smile in affirmation, leaning up to kiss him again before snuggling back against him, and drifting off towards sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok legit question. if I were to write a pacifist-run prequel and sequel to this would y'all want to read it on here?
> 
> come see me at poe-dxmeron.tumblr.com!


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